


James 5:15

by FannyT



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:39:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9402059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FannyT/pseuds/FannyT
Summary: The first time Raphael tries to pray after reawakening, the words stick in his throat, jagged like broken glass, refusing to come out.





	

The first time Raphael tries to pray after reawakening, the words stick in his throat, jagged like broken glass, refusing to come out. 

It feels unbelievably unfair. The vampire who stole his life, snatching away his future and turning him into a hungering monster, took even the possibility of solace from him. The words are still there in his mind, but they’re no longer the comfort they’ve been all his life—instead, they shine painfully bright and sharp, searing like the sun that’s also lost to him. 

Finally, he finds a word that doesn't burn like the rest, and he bends his forehead over his hands—his bloody hands—and mumbles _madre, madre, madre_.

* * *

Magnus Bane’s apartment is large and full of art. There are oils and lithographs and sculptures, and although many of them are impossible for Raphael to look at—Magnus has kindly draped sheets over all the religious paintings, after a casual glance at a reproduction of the Sistine Madonna nearly took Raphael’s eyes out—he whiles away the restless hours by memorising the faces of all those he can. 

They all look judgemental; but then, every face does these days, especially the one in the mirror. 

After Raphael almost walked out into the sun once, Magnus has put up wards all around the apartment and drawn magic veils over every window. No one is getting in without an invitation, and Raphael isn’t getting out. There is nothing for him to do but remember. 

To his credit, Magnus still comes running every time Raphael wakes up screaming.

* * *

“What did you think of my new friends?” Magnus asks one early morning, after a party that ran into the small hours. After the first two, difficult weeks of Raphael’s new and miserable existence, Magnus declared that seclusion was no longer necessary, and now Raphael is becoming used to groups of colourful people crashing into the apartment. 

He rolls his eyes. All of Magnus’s countless friends and acquaintances grate on his ears, crawling under his skin and making his teeth ache. He tends to sulk in a corner whenever Magnus invites people over, nursing a glass of rat’s blood with distaste. 

Magnus, because he thinks he’s so funny, likes to add a stalk of celery to his glass. 

“Insufferingly priggish,” Raphael snaps. He knows he’s being ungrateful and petty, but the sun is rising outside, and it makes his head hurt and his skin feel too tight all over. 

“I know,” Magnus says, unperturbed. “Elias is quite charming, isn’t he? For someone who’s lived through the Prohibition, he still blushes adorably easily. And how about that girlfriend? Don’t know how he managed to land her.”

“Mary? The human?” Raphael asks, despite himself. He did wonder about that—most of Magnus’s friends are immortals like himself, and humans are rare. This one was something called a shadowhunter, which at least meant that she was reasonably at home with the idea of a vampire taking up Magnus’s spare bedroom. Still, one short-lived human and one warlock. Raphael can’t see that working out. “That seems pretty doomed.”

Magnus grins at him, looking unaccountably smug. “Oh, was that her name?”

Raphael rolls his eyes. Magnus likes people, and romance, despite his insistence to the contrary. (He had his heart broken or something recently, and tends to refer to that obliquely but often. Raphael does his best to ignore him.) He’s constantly trying to get Raphael to admit to some kind of attraction to one person or another. 

“I just remember her name,” he says, annoyed. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Don’t you think so?” Magnus says, raising his eyebrows. “Well, never mind.”

After Raphael’s gone to bed, however, his prayers as always feeling tantalisingly out of his reach, he suddenly realises Magnus’s point and sits bolt upright in bed. 

“Mary,” he says out loud, and then, gasping with the relief of it, “María.”

The second name is more difficult than the first. Raphael’s grown up speaking two languages, but Spanish is the language of his faith, and the words come harder there. Even so, after a few tries he manages to even find the word for _holy_ , and he gets as far as _Santa María, madre de_ before his tongue shuts down, refusing to utter the word God in either language.

He stumbles his way through the _Hail Mary_ anyway. It’s not a perfect prayer—truncated and awkward, it falls from his mouth without rhythm or grace, and some words still stab his mind, refusing to come out. _Until the hour of our death_ gives him trouble, too, wondering if it even applies any longer. 

Still, it’s the closest he’s been since he rewoke, and warmth spreads through him with every word that leaves his lips.

* * *

After that, he starts noticing the change. _Señor_ comes back to him, and _bendito_ , and even _Amen_. 

He starts practising making the sign of the cross every evening after he’s just woken up. At first, his fingers curl together and his arm refuses to complete the gesture, but he perseveres. Two months after he first came to Magnus, he can cross himself without flinching. 

Whenever Magnus is out, Raphael walks around the apartment, carefully lifting the sheets over the religious artworks a few seconds at a time. They’re all painfully beautiful, but in time the fire of them starts to fade, and he can once again find peace in the motifs. A small icon in the living room becomes his best friend, and he can sit for hours just staring into the Madonna’s calm eyes.

* * *

One evening in early October, Magnus has a group of warlocks over for what was supposed to be a discussion about border spells but has, by the time Raphael wakes up after sundown, turned into an evening of cocktails and cards. To his mild surprise, Raphael finds himself mostly enjoying the company. Salire is amusing in a rough-and-tumble sort of way, Greta is an unapologetic card sharp and a genuinely funny storyteller, and Elias is indeed quite charming under the anxiously conscientious exterior. 

“God, Elias,” Raphael tells him finally, “in the one hundred and thirty years since you were born, have you ever actually allowed yourself to live?”

“Ha!” Salire shouts, as Greta smiles into her glass and Elias mutters, “One hundred and twenty-seven.”

“I promise, he has a story or six to tell,” Salire says, shuffling the deck of cards inexpertly. “Let’s get a couple of more martinis into him and he’ll sing like a bird.”

She waggles her own feathered eyebrows at Raphael, and he allows himself to smile back at her. 

Because inside, he’s singing with elation. This was his final test. With every word and prayer he’s retaken, he’s been feeling more like himself, and now, today, he feels strong enough to take on the world. The victory of the casual _God_ is enough to make his head spin, and it’s made all the sweeter by how none of the others even noticed the struggle. 

Well. Maybe not _none_ of the others, he amends, as he looks up and meets Magnus’s gaze.

* * *

“Will you be safe?” Magnus asks him, standing in the doorway to Raphael’s room with a cocktail glass in hand, watching him pack. 

“I’m not about to go ripping into any innocents,” Raphael says, rolling his eyes. “It’s been months. I have it under control.” 

“Not what I meant,” Magnus says, unusually soft. “Where will you go?” 

Raphael hesitates, but only for a moment. “To find my kind.” 

He sees the look on Magnus’s face. 

“I’ve paid attention,” he adds. “Elias’s Mary has been talking about a group of vampires staying off the blood. I’ll find them.” 

“Are you sure?” Magnus says. “You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you want, you know.” 

It’s a very nice gesture. Raphael’s gotten to know Magnus Bane during the time since he was turned, and he knows now that despite all the parties and cocktails, Magnus really values his privacy. Offering a permanent spot is a sacrifice not made lightly, and it touches Raphael deeply.

Still. Being here is safe, but he now feels like it’s time to go out into the world again.

“I think,” he says finally, searching for the words, “that I need to be with other people like me. People who understand; people with the same hunger.” He pauses, then adds, “Thanks, though.” 

It’s horribly inadequate. But it’s the first gratitude he’s ever offered at all, and by the way Magnus smiles at him, he seems to hear all those things Raphael can't really say. 

“Well then,” Magnus says, draining his glass and vanishing it to the kitchen with a snap of his fingers, “I guess it only remains for me to show you how to actually fold a shirt. And you are not cramming any of my suits in that battered suitcase. I’ll give you a few garment bags.”

Raphael frowns. “I wasn’t actually going to take—”

“They’re yours now,” Magnus interrupts. “I won’t be wearing them again; not after we went through all that trouble of retailoring them for you. Besides, you’ve rather insultingly gone and looked much better in teal than me.” 

Raphael rolls his eyes. Partly because he hasn’t come up with a better way to handle Magnus’s often effusive compliments yet, and partly because it makes Magnus grin. 

“I’ll go and find those bags to start with,” Magnus says, bustling away and leaving Raphael staring around the bedroom, feeling a sudden and surprising sting of fondness for this place he never intended to like.

* * *

After he leaves Magnus’s home, Raphael lives for some time in a small hotel, sleeping the days away with a _Do Not Disturb_ -sign on the door and prowling Brooklyn by night. He has enough information from listening to Mary and Elias talk to know where to begin looking, but not enough to feel certain of finding anyone yet. 

At least money is no problem. As he looked through his luggage before leaving, he found that Magnus had quietly supplied him with enough cash to make a go of it for quite some time. 

“It’s a _loan_ , nugget,” he said when Raphael confronted him about it, making the overly dismissive grimace Raphael now recognises. (Magnus is a much worse actor than he thinks.) “Don’t quibble. You’ll have eternity to pay me back.”

The nights pass in searching, but not entirely in solitude. There are other night creatures walking the streets with him—the fey, the wild, the dark. And he has learned to recognise and avoid the shadowhunters, too. He actually likes Mary, but he’s listened enough to what she does and doesn’t say to know that in her world, he’s a monster to be killed. 

In her defense, he can’t really say that he blames them.

* * *

There’s a catholic church only two streets away from his hotel, and every morning he lingers as long as he can outside the gates, watching for the priest who opens it up in the early morning. He arrives almost on the dot at seven, but it’s too close to the sunrise for comfort and Raphael often has to hurry away before seeing his familiar shape trudging up the church stairs. 

As the year turns into winter, however, the days become shorter and darker. Raphael dares to stay longer. And one day, the priest stops halfway up the church stairs, turns and beckons to him. Raphael hesitates. Walking on hallowed ground is a test he hasn’t performed yet, but he doesn’t want to keep the father waiting. 

Carefully, he walks forward, half expecting the ground to sizzle under his feet—then berates himself for the idiotic superstition. 

The priest smiles at him. “Do you want to come in, son? I’ve seen you here many mornings, but never at mass.” 

“Thank you,” Raphael says. “I’d like to. But my—work prevents me from attending at the moment. I’m sorry.”

“Well, know that you are always welcome,” the priest tells him. “And Christmas is coming, after all. Should your work allow it, I would be happy to see you here for Midnight Mass.”

“I—” Raphael hesitates. “I think I should be able to manage that. I hope so. Thank you, father.” 

He glances at the sky. His head is killing him. But just within his touch, the church door stands, filling him equally with hope and fear. 

He longs to go inside so badly that he aches. 

“I will come,” he says.

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

Raphael opens the door to one of the blue rooms and gestures for Simon to enter.

“The Hotel DuMort is your home now,” he says, as Simon sits down heavily on the bed, all resignation. “I’ll get you some clothes soon. And just let any of us know if there’s anything else you want. Books, instruments, anything you like to pass the time with. It’s good to keep busy, the first couple of days.” He smiles thinly. “Some of us like to knit.”

Simon rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Raphael is about to leave him to his own, when something about the way Simon is fidgeting draws his attention. He thinks he remembers feeling like that, once upon a time. 

“Do you miss your prayers?” 

Simon looks up at him at that, pained and angry. “What do you think?”

Raphael nods. “They’re still there,” he says, trying for gentle, “even if you can’t reach them right now. You aren’t cut off from God. It’s just that you’ll have to find other paths to your faith until your words return to you.”

Simon stares at him, then looks away. “It’s easy for you to say now,” he says tightly. “It’s all good for you, isn’t it?”

Part of Raphael wants to snap at that, to say that at least Simon woke up guiltless. At least he has loving friends, a home ready to come to, support and help. But the remembrance of that dreadful, isolated feeling of having his faith taken from him when he needed it most is stronger, and he knows how much that stings. He makes a decision. 

“OK. Stay,” he orders, enjoying the way Simon glares at him. There’s fire in him yet, which is a good sign in a newly turned. 

He leaves, gives a few orders about clothes and food to a waiting vampire and then heads for his personal library. They all develop hobbies, after a while. 

Raphael’s is rather more ecclesiastical than most. 

“You’re right, in a way,” he says when he returns to Simon’s room. “I have it easy—now. But that means I can help, too. You won’t be able to speak the right words right now, but I am. And you should be able to listen.”

He sits down opposite Simon and opens the Torah he brought. 

“You’ll have to tell me where to start,” he says.


End file.
